


Genius Next Door

by looks_a_scream



Category: Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe - Small Town, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-03
Updated: 2014-11-03
Packaged: 2018-02-24 00:21:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2561138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/looks_a_scream/pseuds/looks_a_scream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by the Regina Spektor song of the same name.</p><p>The one where Patrick moves to a small town.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Genius Next Door

**Author's Note:**

> There is a vaguely non-con scene toward the end of this work, but as it isn't explicitly non-consensual I didn't put a warning for it. Just a head's up for anyone who may be sensitive to that subject matter. Happy reading!

The key sticks to Patrick's palm when the super hands it over.It's not as though he expected solid gold with his initials engraved and a huge fucking diamond for a keychain, but.Not sticky.He definitely expected not sticky.So he can't help the way his face contorts in disgust, or therefore the way the super eyes him with distaste.

 

"Fourth floor, number six," he gruffs, pointing the young boy out the door.Patrick starts out, halting shortly when the man mutters, "Watch the landings, they stick, too."

 

_Oh, look what you've become._

 

Patrick wonders idly if God came down one day and just busted a huge load over this place, grimacing once more when his fingers adhere to his new doorknob.Middle of Nowhere, Texas never really topped his list of places the live, but.Things don't always go according to plan, unfortunately.

 

"What the fuck," he bitches, voice low and to himself. "Fucking jizz _every_ where..."

 

He pushes his door open with a grunt, a strange odor meeting his nose and an even stranger sound meeting his ears.The odor, that's easily month-old pizza and Everyone's Favorite Bodily Fluid.As a guy, who has previously lived with other guys, it's somewhat familiar.But the sound?That's a laugh.And Patrick thought he was alone.

 

He turns, but no one's around.Scans the short hallway, peers down the stairwell.No one.Still feeling not-quite-alone, Patrick props the door open with his guitar case, then thinks better of it and uses a book from his backpack instead, and heads downstairs to bring up the rest of his boxes.He tries to pretend he didn't hear a door close above him.

 

# # #

 

"I'm serious, Pete," Patrick nudges the phone with his shoulder a bit, holding it more firmly to his ear, "Ron Jeremy's collective works were filmed entirely within my apartment.And the hallway.He's probably still in here, somewhere."

 

Pete howls on the other end. "You're full of shit, Stump.And anyway, that's what you get for moving to East Bumfuck Nowhere."

 

"Dude, _and_ downstairs," Patrick continues. "I bet my super was the fucking art director or something.He's kind of sketchy like that."

 

"Yeah, okay.By the way, I'm counting down the days until you start selling yourself for cash.I have it programmed in my phone.With its own alarm!"

 

Patrick dunks the sponge into a bucket of murky water for the eighty-thousandth time, he's sure, not even bothering to wring it out before scrubbing away at the walls again.It skids on a particularly gummy spot, making Patrick want to vomit. "Yeah?That's because you're a dick."

 

"At least promise me discounts."

 

"Eat shit."

 

# # #

 

Someone's on the fire escape.

 

 _Oh fuck,_ is all Patrick can really think, but seriously, oh fuck, there's someone on his fucking fire escape and he's going to fucking die before he's even lived here for more than twenty-four hours.

 

He crawls off the futon, sick at the thought of what's been on the floor, but forces himself not to care.Life, at stake.The metal bars of the fire escape clatter as whoever moves... away, actually.Downward, toward the alley and the dumpsters below.Second thoughts?A moment of divine clarity?Patrick doesn't even care, as long as whoever no longer plans on bashing his head in.

 

There's a small figure at the very bottom of the ladder, by the time he gets up and looks out the window.It moves quickly, jumping to the street and ducking behind the dumpster.In a flash, all of Someone's clothes are shed, and Someone is trotting away, down the alley.They disappear over the wire fence, and through the trees beyond.

 

Patrick lays back on the futon, closes his eyes, and tries not to think of anything.

 

# # #

 

A small diner kind of place sits across the street from the apartment building.A nice little Mom-and-Pop sort of establishment, the kind that probably sells breakfast all day and has the World's Best Coffee, and freshly baked frozen pie.It reminds Patrick of home, almost, of late night adventures with Pete, so he goes in.After standing outside the front window for twenty minutes reminiscing and trying not to cry, yeah, he goes in.

 

The sign says "Seat Yourself," so he chooses a small booth in the back corner.Isolated, but not quite alone.He pulls out his notebook, opening carefully to his newest piece, and starts mulling. 

 

Patrick, he's a composer.Sort of.Wants to be, anyway, with his notebooks full of music, none of it having ever seen success or even the light of day, really.He thinks he could write actual songs, outside the realm of an orchestra, except his words never come out right.Pete was always far better with lyrics.But Patrick doesn't want to be like Pete; he'd rather focus on melodies and crescendos than metaphors and cynicisms.

 

"'Sup."Barely a greeting or warning, then this kid sets a cup of coffee right on top of Patrick's makeshift staves.

 

"Holy shit!" he cries, hands flailing a bit.He yanks the notebook away, delayed, and the coffee spills in terrible slow-motion, cruel in the way it splatters.Patrick gapes as the ink runs out of recognition.

 

Hands pull the notebook away, and the kid is blotting it furiously. "Oh, I'm so sorry.Man, I'm sorry."

 

All Patrick has the heart to do is sit back and watch, mouth still ajar.His eyelids droop, defeated, when the kid hands his notebook back.Thoroughly ruined.It bends in a way it definitely shouldn't, limp and rotting before his eyes.

 

"Aw, dude, I," the kid stammers.He hastily sops up the spilt coffee with a towel and gathers the mug. "I'll buy you a new one.Seriously, that.Shit, I'm such a moron."

 

"No, no, don't even worry," Patrick insists, half-heartedly. "It's just, y'know.Years of work.Nothing major."It isn't meant to sound so harsh, but _years of work_ just got destroyed in front of his eyes.

 

The kid lingers for a moment, then mutters another quick apology, and disappears.Patrick doesn't feel like mediocre pancakes anymore, so he gathers his things -- his unsalvageable things -- and heads back home.  

 

For his first day in town, he thinks irritably, rather productive.

 

# # #

 

"So wait, everything's gone?"

 

Pete's crunching on _something_ right in his ear, but Patrick pretends it doesn't bother him in favor of bitching about his day.

 

" _Everything,_ " he declares dramatically. "I've never felt so fucking depressed in my entire life, for real.Like, I started that notebook when I was in high school.What am I supposed to do now?"

 

"Huh." Pete stops crunching, briefly. "Start a new one."

 

"I fucking hate you."

 

Pete just laughs. "What do you want me to say, dude?Go wallow in your self-pity some more?You want to write music, fuck, write music!That's what you went out there to do, so shut up and fucking do it!"

 

He's right, but Patrick's not ready to stop whining yet. "Yeah, well, when the internet implodes and your stupid blog gets deleted, don't come crying to me.And for the record, that waiter? _Fucking moron!"_

 

Another crunch. _I'm going to strangle you._ "So.What'd he look like?"

 

"I'm going to strangle you."

 

Pete's still laughing when Patrick hangs up.

 

# # #

 

When Patrick opens his door the next morning, there's a Moleskine in front of it, with a big red bow and a note that says, "Sorry again."

 

# # #

 

Someone clambers down his fire escape, into the alley, and over the fence that night.Patrick watches from his window until he can't see anymore.He opens his new notebook and scrawls crashing timpanis before he passes out.

 

# # #

 

It's a week later when he meets his neighbor.

 

Well, his immediate neighbor.The others have taken it upon themselves to make their introductions over the past few weeks -- Ms. Hendershaw, Number Three, even brought him cookies, which makes her some kind of angel -- and Patrick's reclusive enough himself to not really notice that he had yet to meet anyone.Or to care, for that matter.

 

But when it does happen, he's in the hallway, bucket of water (which is more like Oliver Twist stew, actually) and sponge in hand, intent on eliminating any and all gooey scum from his front door, when Number Five opens up and steps right into the bucket.

 

"Oh, fuck!" Number Five shouts, startled, crashing to the floor and taking all the gruel with him.Patrick turns, also startled, taking in the sight before him.

 

A boy, roughly a year or two older, but certainly no taller, is face-first on the ground, left leg lodged in the bottom of Patrick's mop bucket.He pushes himself up onto his -- tattooed, Patrick notes -- hands, shaking a shock of black hair from his eyes, and adjusting a pair of thick, plastic black glasses.He glances up at Patrick, who stands, gawking. "So, are you gonna offer to help me up or just stare at my misery all day?" the boy grunts.

 

"Oh, shit, right, sorry." Patrick takes the kid's arm and hauls him to his feet, still holding on as he steps out of the bucket and shoves it toward the wall, safely out of the way.Number Five pulls his arm away roughly, barely saying anything before practically running down the stairs. "Wait, your door -- !"But it's too late.  

 

Number Five, however, did leave his front door wide open.Patrick moves to close it, but catches sight of a guitar, and curiosity, well.As the saying went, he should turn and walk away, but the sheen of a black Les Paul brings his feet across the threshold.He ogles it a moment, ponders stealing it, but hey, _neighbor_ , so no.  

 

As the guitar relinquishes its mystical hold on him, he peers around at the rest of the studio, pretty much an exact replica of his own apartment.There are mountains of books piled everywhere, rivaled only by the piles of dirty clothing.The walls are littered with drawings and scrawled messages.There's no television, no stereo, barely even a surface on which to sleep.Just books and papers and clothes. 

 

And then he sees it.

 

Surrounded by doodles of Pizza Monsters and gnarled trees and little boys with no thumbs, is Patrick.A jagged, wallowing portrayal, but there he is, just the same.Sitting at a table, glaring angrily at the viewer.Clutching --

 

"What the fuck!"

 

Patrick whips around, coming face to face with Number Five. "Uh..."

 

"Get out!"

 

# # #

 

Pete reasons that he can't be a stalker if he lives next door.Patrick feels inclined to agree, but tells him that when Patrick's mangled corpse shows up on Nancy Grace, it's totally his fault.Pete just laughs.

 

# # #

 

Number Five stays in his apartment for three days.

 

Patrick hears Someone on his fire escape every night.

 

# # #

 

Try as he might, Patrick can't get the brief image of his neighbor out of his head.Or the drawing.He's not sure why it haunts him so -- beside the fact that it's kind of fucking creepy -- but when he closes his eyes, there they are.Glaring at him.

 

Sometimes, he'll hear the sound of the guitar through the wall.He tries to keep himself from pressing up against it, but usually that's where he ends up.Number Five is good, _really_ good, and he strums away, unaware of the show he's putting on.Patrick finds himself longing to knock on the door, ask to come inside.

 

Push him down onto a pile of books and fuck him senseless.

 

 _What the fuck,_ he thinks, _am I really that much of a guitar slut?_

 

"You really are," Pete confirms next time he calls.He raises his voice a register. "'Ohh, sketchy neighbor, please suck my dick while your guitar gently weeps.'"

 

Patrick forces a laugh, but is mostly offended.Okay, okay, mostly fucking horny. "Shut the fuck up."He pauses. "Pete, what are you wearing?"

 

"A parka.Stop hitting on me, perv."

 

Later, Patrick falls asleep to visions of Pete manning a dogsled and Number Five playing George Harrison, naked.

 

# # #

 

The next morning, Patrick decides to give Mom-and-Pop another go.He really wants pancakes, and with any luck, the Dumbest Busboy Ever won't be working.

 

He takes the back corner booth again, but keeps the Moleskine in his bag, for safe measure.A few moments later, Number Five comes around the corner, cup of coffee in his hand, and stops short when he sees Patrick.Coffee sloshes out over the rim of the mug and splashes on the floor.

 

"Oh, fuck."

 

Neither are sure who said it, but after an awkward beat or two, Number Five continues his path to Patrick's table, and sets the mug down with fierce concentration.He glances at Patrick, the corner of his mouth twisting downward. "Don't put that notebook on the table, dude.It cost me like ten bucks."

 

Patrick boggles. "Wha -- ?"  

 

"The notebook?" Number Five reiterates. "I ruined your other one?"

 

"But. _You_ bought me the new one?"

 

Number Five rolls his eyes. "Yeah.I wouldn't buy another one if I didn't owe you.That's logic."

 

The pieces finally stick together in Patrick's brain. "I.Sorry, I didn't... realize, I guess.That you were my neighbor.Or, I guess, that you were the kid who.You know.I didn't realize."

 

"You're observant."The corner of his mouth twists in the opposite direction, so Patrick assumes that maybe he's not _really_ making fun of him.

 

"So.What's your name?" Patrick blurts.He grabs the cup of coffee and pours some down his throat straight after, letting the burn punish him for being such a social freak.

 

Number Five just raises an eyebrow. "Frank.I can't really... small talk at work, y'know, doesn't bode well with my paycheck."

 

"Right, right, um.See you around?"

 

This time, Frank smiles. "Yeah."And vanishes into the depths of the restaurant.Patrick remembers to stop staring after him five minutes later.

 

# # #

 

That night, there's a knock on his door.Patrick answers, expecting the Chinese he ordered, and finds Frank stood with a brown paper bag in his hand.They stare at each other for a long, awkward moment until Frank pushes past him and into the apartment.Patrick doesn't question, just closes the door and watches his unexpected guest take everything in.

 

"Can I help you?" he says finally, and Frank gives him a Look.

 

"You've seen mine, I can't see yours?"

 

Patrick can't really say why he blushes, but it makes Frank let out this rolling, bubbling laugh, so he figures it was a good move.He clears his throat and tilts his head to the bag in Frank's hands. "What's that?"

 

"Oh!" Frank lifts it up like he'd forgotten it existed. "It's your Chinese food.I met the guy on the way in and signed for it."

 

"Oh.Uh.Thanks." _That's weird._ Patrick moves closer to take the bag from him. "Do... you want some?I got kind of a lot."

 

Frank smirks. "Isn't that lucky."

 

Patrick blushes again. "Well, I always get a lot.So that I'll have leftovers.Chinese food is like three meals for the price of one."

 

Frank laughs again, longer this time, letting it wash over Patrick. "I guess so.You're strange."

 

They eat in relative silence, and Frank only starts talking after they've had their fill and Patrick's started to clean up.He picks up Patrick's guitar and strums quietly, speaking over the chords in this low, gravelly voice that makes Patrick shiver.He hopes Frank doesn't notice.

 

It's unlikely, though, as Frank seems absorbed in the movement of his fingers and the stories he's telling.How he grew up on the East Coast, didn't get along with his parents, and left before finishing high school.How he was too smart for his own good, and unhappy about it.  

 

"They just wanted to exploit it," he says, kind of bitterly. "They'd put me in all these, like, mathematics competitions and shit like that.Spelling bees."He rolls his eyes. "But, I mean, I hated showing it off.Kids thought I was weird, you know?But my parents didn't give a fuck, they just kept trying to make me world champion of something-or-other and get me on TV."

 

Patrick shrugs helplessly. "That's, uh, rough.Having kids shouldn't really be a get-rich-quick scheme, or something." He pauses, considering Frank. "What's the square root of 3,492?" 

 

Frank laughs and replies, "59.0931468."He scrunches his nose up toward the end like he's not entirely sure if he's got it.And shit, _Patrick_ doesn't know if he's right or wrong, so he boggles anyway.  

 

Frank goes on to tell him how he moved out here looking for extended family (which he never found).How he's lived in this town for the better part of six years -- making him 23, a year or two older than Patrick expected -- and worked at the diner for just as long.

 

"With no promotion, either," Frank adds. "But they're nice people, and they give me a raise on a regular basis, so I can't complain.I get to serve the coffee, and that's about as much waitressing as I can handle."

 

He tells Patrick how he sometimes works for a music store a few towns over, repairing guitars.And sometimes he writes and illustrates children's books.But not as often, because that's a competitive business and it's hard to find a good agent or publisher in a place like this.

 

"But again, I can't complain," he says. "I have a nice life, y'know, no worries or anything.I get to do what I love every now and then, and I get to keep to myself.Win, win, win."He stops strumming, then, looks pointedly at Patrick. "So.What's _your_ name?"

 

# # #

 

Pete still insists that he's not a stalker. "He lives right next door!And you're a fucking hermit.The thing about stalkers is, they like to _stalk people._ How's he gonna do that if you're ten feet away all the fucking time?"

 

"You would know," is all Patrick can muster.It barely even makes sense with the conversation.Pete pauses for a minute.

  
"Dude, you don't even care if he's stalking you.You've got a big fat mancrush on him."

 

Patrick groans. " _Yeah_ , but Pete, he's... shit, man, he plays guitar _and_ he repairs them!And he writes children's books!And... I don't know, he's really fucking smart!And he's got these tattoos, and this dark hair..." His face flushes a little, voice trailing off and feeling somewhat exposed, suddenly.Like Pete will hold it against him that his supposed mancrush is actually a full-fledged, heart-pounding kind of crush.Pete hardly seems to notice.

 

"Yawn.If he's writing children's books, he's probably only into you for your baby fat."

 

Pete's laughing, once again, and calling out his name when Patrick hangs up.

 

# # #

 

On the other side of the wall, Frank is moaning.

 

Patrick woke up ten minutes ago to take a piss, and when he laid back down on the futon, he heard it.Soft, in a muffled kind of way, but very obvious.Patrick tries not to, he really does, but soon he's pressed right up against the wall, listening intently.Frank is breathing fast and shallow, letting out little whimpers and every so often, that tell-tale moan.

 

"Oh, fuck," he breathes, and Patrick's face flushes.Frank is letting out a litany of sounds that Patrick can't identify, but all of them make him want to break his door down and hear them at full volume.Push him against the wall, against that drawing that haunts him, and fuck him hard.Make him moan, and scream, and pant.

 

He grabs his Moleskine and listens and writes trembling violins and booming percussion and gutteral bassoons.Frank lets out a long, shaking breath, gasping a little, and goes quiet.Patrick throws the notebook on the floor, shoves his shorts down, and gives his reprise.

 

# # #

 

The next evening, Frank shows up at his door again, this time holding a plastic bag with the words THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU on the side in block navy lettering.Patrick steps aside, and Frank enters, explaining that he stopped to get some Thai on the way home and thought maybe this time, Patrick could tell him a little about _him_ self.Patrick just sits on the futon, wondering if Frank knows what happened the night before, maybe he's pretending he doesn't.Or if maybe he _doesn't_ , and he's just being a nice guy.

 

He hopes and prays for the latter.

 

So they sit and eat in silence, again, and when dinner is over, Patrick tells Frank all about how he grew up in Illinois, and moved to Los Angeles briefly after he graduated high school, with his friend, Pete.

 

"We were gonna start a band together," Patrick laughs. "In hindsight, I realize that's pretty stupid.But we were kids, so it seemed.I guess, more possible."

 

Frank doesn't smile, just leans his arm on the back of the futon, supporting the side of his jaw with his hand, and scrunches his nose a little. "What happened?Why'd you leave?"

 

_You knew he was going to ask, fuckwad._

 

His ears burn pink, Patrick pulling on the side of his hat to try to hide it. "He, uh.Ashlee.He met this girl named Ashlee, and.They got married last month."

 

Frank's fingers pull at Patrick's hand until it's firmly grasped in his own.His hat jumps back up on his head, and his ears just burn even brighter.When he looks up, though, Frank's smiling at him, somewhat sympathetically.It's strange; he's not sure why Frank's looking at him that way.

 

"But, uh, that's really all there is to tell," he says, and Frank looks skeptical.

 

He cocks his head to the side, nose crinkling up again. "I see more than that in you, Patrick.You're a genius, aren't you?You're the next, uh, Bob Dylan?"

 

"I write classical music now, though."He makes a face. "Not by choice, it's just.Easier."Somehow.

 

Frank grins wider. "Alright, Mozart, then."

 

Patrick ducks his head again, laughing shortly. "Nope, afraid not.Just another kid who couldn't make it big out West.My life's always been about music, right, so I followed it out there, and it backfired, so now I've followed it here."

 

"It's never that simple."

 

Something about the way he says it makes Patrick wince, stung."Look, I don't know what to tell you.I'm not... I can't _settle._ I can't content myself with less than what I want, like you have.My life is about _music_ , and I follow where it leads, not the other way around.I don't let my path get hampered by other shit."He's not sure why he's getting this defensive, but the words come rushing out of him like a reflex.

 

Frank looks somewhat affronted. "You think I've settled?You don't think I 'follow my dreams' or whatever bullshit?"

 

"Well, come on, Frank, look where you are."

 

"I _like_ where I am!If I didn't, I wouldn't be here.I get to do things that I'm passionate about, and I'm living the life I wanted to live.If you're not, I apologize, but don't take shit out on me just because you're bitter that your friend abandoned you and fucked your life up."

 

It's Patrick's turn to look affronted. "I.I'm not _bitter_ , he didn't -- "

 

Frank stands up, letting out a condescending bark of a laugh. "Oh, really?You think I don't hear you in here every night? 'Oh, Pete, I fucking hate you.I fucking hate you.I fucking hate you.'If that's not 'letting your path get hampered,' I don't know what is."

 

"Fuck you, man!" Patrick's up in Frank's face before he knows it, face red in rage and embarrassment. "You don't even know me or my friends or my _life,_ so just shut the fuck up!"

 

Frank raises an eyebrow, not moving away from Patrick but not returning his anger, either.He stares up at him, unimpressed. "If you want to write music, do it.Stop distracting yourself with Pete or your charming new neighbor.And, for your sake, I'll stop _being_ such a distraction."He leaves with Patrick on his heels, slamming the door after him.The bite of his words, condescending and sarcastic, resonates under Patrick's skin.

 

He tears about the small apartment for a time, cleaning up and throwing dishes and leftovers into the sink.At least one plate breaks, but he can't bring himself to care.The Moleskine sits on the floor, taunting him, so he grabs it up and writes and writes and writes until his fingers go numb.Until he's so tired he can barely keep his eyes open.And for a moment, he strains to listen, but no sound comes through the wall.

 

Patrick's heart sinks, and he falls asleep with nothing behind his eyes.

 

# # #

 

"I have three movements."

 

"Wow, 'Trick, that's awesome!"Pete sounds genuinely impressed. "I guess you were right about moving out there."He pauses. "Still miss you, though."

 

There's no joke or teasing in his voice, and Patrick remembers what Frank said.Guilt wrenches his gut around in circles. "Yeah, I miss you too, man."

 

"Have you talked to your new friend again lately?"

 

"Uh.Yeah.He came over again last night.I don't.I'm not sure if he really likes me that much, though."

 

Pete tisks. "Now, Patrick, what have I told you about self-deprecating?Who could not love a cute little turd like you?"

 

Patrick laughs lightly, suppressing the "Fuck off" that tries to escape. "Right.Look, I gotta go, Pete, but I'll... send you what I've got when I take it through GarageBand."

 

"Awesome, man, I look forward to it."Another pause. "And, Patrick?"

 

"Yeah?"

 

"Try not to wack off to your neighbors too much.You could go blind."

 

Patrick laughs again, and this time, doesn't hold back.

 

# # #

 

Someone's knocking... at his window.In focusing on Frank Through the Wall, Patrick had nearly forgotten about Someone on the Fire Escape.He's slept soundly through them, clambering down and off into the night.But now, he's awake, and there they are, knocking on the glass like they know he used to watch them.  

 

He gets up slowly, pulling on a t-shirt and a pair of pants.A hat to cover his bedhead.There's nothing really to grab for self-defense, but he figures, if Someone wanted to assault him in some way, they wouldn't knock first.So he approaches the window, pulling back the curtain ever-so-slowly, and peers out.

 

Two bright green eyes and a dark shock of hair peer back at him.In his head, he relaxes and at the same time, finds he's not entirely surprised.Frank just looks at him, waiting for him to open the window.Which he does, once he remembers to move, and Frank sticks his head through the opening, bringing the night air with him.He smiles, a little, scratching at the back of his neck. "Hey, um.I wondered if you would go somewhere with me."

 

"I have a front door."

 

Frank grins, all teeth and eyes. "It's this way, though."

 

Patrick doesn't tell Frank that he knows, but he slips out of the window after him, sliding it almost back into place, and follows down the fire escape.It feels teenaged, almost, like he's sneaking out of his parent's house with the older boy from school to go drink and drive around in his car.Maybe it is like that.

 

They get to the dumpsters, and Frank starts stripping down, revealing tattoos everywhere, even his legs.Patrick kind of stares, lingers, tries _not_ to stare, and then asks, "Should I be naked, too, for this?"

 

Frank considers him. "If you want."

 

He doesn't want.But he at least takes his shoes and his hat off.Frank smiles at him, leads him up and over the fence (which Patrick achieves with not quite as much grace as Frank), and into the dark of the trees.Patrick doesn't bother to ask where they're going.He figures it's probably a secret, or a surprise, or both.He also actively tries not to stare at Frank or his ass or his lean frame.They walk for a long time, following some kind of path that Frank knows but can't be seen, and after awhile, Patrick starts to smell... something.

 

"Ugh, what reeks?" he blurts out, covering his mouth and nose.

 

Frank chuckles, patting him on the back. "That's our destination.The Watering Hole.It's magic."

 

Patrick's not so sure.

 

The Watering Hole turns out to be a small pond behind a sewage plant.As they approach, other voices can be heard, much younger voices.Frank kind of sighs, but says nothing.Some kids run out from behind the trees, bare naked much like Frank is.They laugh and run and jump right into the pond, splashing and crowing.One stays out, lifting a brown bottle to his lips, gulping, and then throwing it against the nearest tree, cackling as it smashes into millions of razor sharp pieces.

 

"Hey!" Frank calls once they're close enough.The kids all lift their heads at once. "What are you doing?"

 

The one on the bank rolls his eyes. "We're not breaking any laws."

 

"You 21?" Frank demands.

 

"You a cop?" the kid shoots back, making his friends laugh.

 

Patrick watches in awe as Frank walks right up to the little punk (which is kind of hilarious in itself, because well, Frank's not the most conservative-looking kid, either, though he is much older) and shoves the kid to the ground. "Go home, alright?Wait 'til you're legal and don't screw your fucking life up."

 

The kids in the water scramble out, gathering their clothes and running off into the trees.The kid on the ground gets up more slowly, but no less eagerly, grabs his clothes, and spits at Frank's feet as he walks off into the night.It doesn't seem to faze him, though.As soon as the kids are gone, he turns to Patrick, smiling, opening his arms wide. "So yeah.This is it."

 

"What is it?"

 

Frank shrugs, kind of laughing. "Not that impressive, right?It's where I come to relax.Kind of... get away from everything, I guess."

 

"Always in the middle of the night?"

 

"Usually.Sometimes I gotta scare kids away, like tonight.If I don't, they'll get the pond all full of beer bottles and shit.It's dangerous."As he speaks, Frank starts to wade into the water.When it gets to his waist, he leans back and floats, pushing himself along.Patrick sits at the edge of the pond and watches him, letting himself smile at the sight.Frank looks so peaceful, so careless.

 

"So what's so magic about it?"

 

Frank grins again, lighting up the trees. "It's not, really.Old wive's tale."Patrick grins back.  

 

Silence falls in around them, comfortable, interrupted only by the soft splashes of Frank's hands as he floats to and fro.The sky isn't quite clear through the tops of the trees, but Patrick pretends he can see it anyway, that he can count every single star.In a way, it reminds him of home -- not Los Angeles, which was never really home to begin with, but _home_.Illinois.Camping with his family in the summer and building bonfires on Lake Michigan with Pete in the fall.Sledding in winter, and then those first warm spring days after long, dreary months of cold.All wrapped up into this little pond and the quiet _splish splash_.  

 

"Hey," comes Frank's voice, cutting through the pictures projected in Patrick's head. "Look, those kids left their beer."

 

# # #

 

"Dude, are you wasted?"

 

Patrick laughs an inappropriate amount, and loudly.Frank laughs, too, behind him, pushing him farther up the fire escape ladder.He stumbles, almost dropping the phone, but manages to recover, though laughing even more. "No-o-o-o, Peter, I am perfecty sober."

 

"'Perfecty?'Man, you are so fucking drunk."Luckily, Pete sounds amused. "So you found a bar worth going to in that shithole?Surprising."

 

Frank rolls his eyes when Patrick stops for the umpteenth time. "No, no, not a _bar_ , not a bar.I went out with Frank."

 

"Frank?"

 

"You know-w-w-w.Hot creepy stalker neighbor."

 

Frank laughs sharply, and then, perhaps to accentuate one or all of these points, Frank places his hands firmly on Patrick's waist, steering him upwards toward his window. "I can't stalk you if I live next door," he breathes, close to both Patrick's ear and his cell phone.

 

Pete whoops with laughter. "I heard that!Dude, I told you!"

 

But Patrick's no longer listening.With a quick, "Bye, Pete," he snaps the phone shut and turns underneath Frank's hands.The shorter man looks up at him curiously, eyes shining in amusement.He mutters, "Lightweight," and then Patrick is pushing him up against the metal railing and shoving their mouths together.

 

Frank lets out a small noise, and Patrick just presses closer.He thinks about hearing Frank moan, _making_ him, forces his way into his mouth.His hands tangle into the thick, wet strands at the nape of his neck.Frank's fingers press into the skin at Patrick's waist, through the fabric of his t-shirt.The front is slowly soaking through, Frank still slippery from his dip in the pond, making Patrick shiver pleasantly. 

 

A moment later, there's a dull crack, and both men jump apart.They peer over the edge of the railing, plastic scattered across the alley and gleaming up at them.Frank gapes at Patrick, who says, dumbly, "I dropped my phone."

 

# # #

 

When Patrick wakes up, he's surrounded by books.And clothing.He blinks, eyes blurred from sleep, head pounding. _Where the fuck --_

 

Frank is asleep next to him.

 

Naked.

 

Patrick tries to shift away without flailing and causing a scene, because, hey, naked boy next to him usually leads to at least minor freak outs, and fuck, where is his phone he needs to call Pete rightthefucknow and shit shit shit shit.Needless to say, Patrick ends up kneeing Frank in the side, knocking him off the bed (which Patrick honestly didn't even think he _had_ ) and onto the floor.

 

"Good morning to you, too," he groans, pulling himself upright at the edge of the bed.Patrick just stares at him. "Do you want some coffee?I'm gonna make some."So he gets up all the way, clumsily grabbing his glasses and shoving them on, ambling to the kitchenette.Naked.

 

Patrick just stares.

 

"How do you like it?" Frank asks, pulling sugar and creamer from their respective places. "Black?Cream?Sugar?Both?"He turns to his guest, eyebrows raised expectantly."Patrick?"

 

"Did we have sex?" Patrick gushes, wanting to stab himself between the eyes as soon as it's out.

 

Frank stills for a beat, considering the question.Then he grins, sudden and startling, making Patrick's heart pound wildly. "Are you joking?"His face falls instantly. "You're not joking.Well, this is awkward."

 

And he knows what that means.They _did,_ oh god, how could Patrick be so stupid?While he's busy mentally berating himself for his transgressions, Frank pads over and sits on the bed beside him.He places a hand firmly on Patrick's, frowning a little at the way it makes him twitch.

 

"Patrick.I... I'm sorry.I took advantage, and that was wrong, clearly this is bothering you, and -- "

 

" _You_ took advantage?"

 

Frank blushes, a beautiful, bashful thing that gives Patrick this sudden urge to wrap his arms around him and squeeze until neither of them can breathe anymore. "Well, why do you think I took you with me last night?"He smiles, shaking his head.Bits of hair fall into his eyes. "I, you know, like you.I wanted to have sex with you.I guess I thought you felt the same."

 

Patrick sputters out some nonsense, probably not even real words.His head spins.

 

"It's just... I thought you wanted to," Frank continues, his hand trailing up Patrick's arm, eyes following. "I heard you, talking to Pete about me.How you sit so still when you listen to me, trying not to make a sound." Fingers trace over his collarbone, a warm breath next to his ear.His eyes slip shut of their own accord. "I know you listen, when I jerk off.I lay as close to the wall as I can, and touch myself, and think about you.When I come, I want to scream your name, but I don't.I just lay, and wait, and then listen while you do the same, and think of me. _Do_ you think of me, Patrick?"

 

Patrick whimpers, nods.Frank smiles against his ear.

 

"So take what you want.No regrets."

 

Next thing he knows, Patrick's got Frank pinned beneath him, knees bent against his chest.Skin glittering with sweat as Patrick fucks him -- fast fast so dirty holy fuck -- into the mattress.Frank throws his head back, moaning long and loud, and Patrick doesn't even have to touch him to bring him over the edge.He keeps moving, keeps thrusting.It's like he's submerged in the ocean, trying desperately to reach the surface, to fill his lungs again.Frank's egging him on, saying, "Yes, oh god, faster, harder, yes, _Patrick_ \-- " and it's too much, can't take it, going to fucking die.

 

Then Frank wraps a leg around his waist, pulls him as deep as he can, and it's over.He's gasping for air, filling his lungs.There are hands on him, everywhere, bringing him closer after he pulls out and sinks to the mattress again.Fingers cup his jaw, carefully, and when his breathing finally slows to normal, he opens his eyes. "Holy shit."

 

A brilliant smile lights up the room. "No regrets?"

 

"Fuck no," he says, with feeling. "You're incredible."

 

# # #

 

Patrick doesn't sleep for five days straight.He transcribes his notes into GarageBand, and sends Pete a copy when he's finished.He fucks Frank in between breaths.Occassionally, he orders some take-out.

 

# # #

 

"Don't forget me when you're rich and famous."

 

Patrick laughs, lets the smile linger. "People don't become rich and famous that often for composing shitty classical music."

 

"But you will."He seems so sure.It's unsettling. "Someday, man, you'll get that call, and off you'll go."He sighs, dumping his coffee mug in the sink and resting his hands on the edge of the counter. "I'm not your boyfriend.This isn't a relationship."

 

"... No."

 

His shoulders slump, ever so slightly. "Off you'll go."

 

Patrick gets up, crosses the small apartment.His arms fit so perfectly around Frank's waist, it makes him dizzy.He presses a kiss to the hair behind Frank's ear.Whispers, "There's magic in your skin."

 

Frank purrs, pushes himself back into the embrace.His glasses get knocked, a little, when he turns.They fit so well onto his features that sometimes, Patrick forgets he has them.Frank asks if Patrick remembers kissing him on the fire escape. _Yes._ He studies him for a long moment, biting his lip.Then he asks if Patrick remembers the last time he kissed Pete.

 

"I.What?"

 

Frank repeats.

 

"Pete and I... we're just... he wasn't -- "

 

"Your boyfriend?" Frank cocks an eyebrow. "Neither am I.And yet, here _we_ are."

 

"But.I -- _Frank_... why are you asking me this?"

 

Frank gazes at him steadily. "I need to know."

 

Patrick kind of wants to throw a tantrum, to shout and curse and slam the door on his way out.But Frank looks at him, like he'll keep all of his secrets, and suddenly the words come tumbling out.That one night, last summer.Pete met a girl -- _This is it, Trick, she's the one. --_ and everything went dim.He saw his life crumbling, had to hold it together.He meant to push him, really, just start a scuffle that he could blame the collapse on later, and then they were crowded up against the wall, legs and tongues tangled furiously.They brought each other off with Patrick's back arched against one of the countertops, and then Pete kind of freaked.

 

"We didn't talk for a month," Patrick mutters into his hands. "When I finally got him to speak to me again, he pretended like nothing ever happened.And... I don't know, that's how it's been, I guess.He knows I'm into guys, at least somewhat, and he'll talk to me about that, act like he's supportive or whatever, but he just won't.Acknowledge..."He pulls at his hair a little, to keep himself from crying.

 

Frank nods along with the story, looking neither surprised or particularly sympathetic, but his hands ghost over Patrick's back. "You've never spoken to him about it?"

 

"How could I?If I bring it up, he'll probably play stupid, or fucking stop talking to me again.And I can't handle that, Frank, I can't, he's my best friend.I'd rather pretend it never happened than have him shut me out."And then he _is_ crying, for fuck's sake, but in his defense, he never wanted to talk about this in the first place.So it's Frank's fault.He's making him cry like a little girl, making him lay bare all of his feelings.Fuck. _Feelings._

 

 _"_ I don't want to talk anymore," he says stubbornly, wiping at his eyes.Frank looks skeptical, but nods slowly. "I'm going home."

 

Patrick gets up without another word, without touching Frank at all, just moves into the hall and locks his apartment door behind himself.Tears well up again, briefly. _Pussy._

 

# # #

 

Pete calls him the next Tuesday night, but Patrick ignores it.Pete subsequently calls him six more times, and sends ten texts asking if everything's alright, or if maybe Patrick's mad at him.Patrick eventually turns his new phone off and stares at the ceiling.

 

# # #

 

On Friday, Patrick starts awake at a loud _thud_ through the wall.Or wait, that's not coming through the wall, that's at his door.It's still probably Frank, which kind of irritates him for a moment.But then again, Frank _has_ left him alone this past week, letting him have his brooding solitude.The least he can do is open the door and politely ask him to go away, right?Right.

 

He pulls the door open swiftly, already in the middle of, "Frank, look, I still need some time -- "

 

But the hallway's empty.

 

"Jesus Christ, Patrick," he mutters to himself, "now you're starting to hear shit.You really gotta -- _oh fuck!"_

 

A blur of motion pushes him back into the apartment, against one of the walls, slamming him hard and holding fast.He opens his mouth to scream -- Rape!Murder!Assault!Fire! -- at the same time that he looks down and realizes.He's not being attacked, he's being _hugged._ By --

 

"Pete?!"

 

The aforementioned shiteater squeezes Patrick's middle. "Trick!I'm so glad you're not cut up into little tiny pieces or eating rats or laying in a ditch or practicing animal rituals!"He looks up, grinning. "You're not, are you?Part of a cult or crazy or in mortal danger?"

 

"Um.Not that I'm aware of."

 

"Awesome!"Pete lets go, shuts the apartment door, and looks around. "So I'll take the floor?"

 

And, just like that, he's staying for two weeks.

 

# # #

 

On the first night, Pete asks if he can meet Frank.After Patrick says no, he kind of whines about it for an hour, then lets it go.They talk music instead, watch some movies on Patrick's computer, and go to bed.

 

The second day, Pete asks about Frank again.Patrick still insists, no, Pete can't meet him.Being the stubborn asshole that he is, Pete goes so far as to knock on Frank's door.Luckily, Patrick knows his schedule, knows he's currently working, so he just leans against his doorframe and rolls his eyes when Pete pouts at him. "Sorry, dude, guess it's not meant to be," he says tiredly.They stay inside all day, watching more movies, jam a little for old time's sake, briefly talk about Ashlee, and go to bed early.

 

The third day, Pete wakes Patrick up and hauls him out the door before he's fully cognizant of his surroundings.It's not until they're sliding into the worn pleather seats of Mom and Pop's that Patrick recalls just how crafty Pete is.

 

"Oh god," he moans, putting his hands over his face. "What the fuck, man?"

 

Pete grins. "What's wrong, Trickmeister?I thought you liked places like this?"

 

"When we get home, I'm murdering you."

 

It's then that Frank rounds the corner, two cups of coffee in his hands.He nearly halts at the sight of the table, eyes sweeping quickly over the back of Pete's head.Patrick can't even look past Frank's sneakers.The coffee is placed in front of them, carefully.Frank's fingers are shaking, ever-so-slightly, around Pete's mug.

 

"Nice to see you, Patrick," he says, too polite.He turns to Pete. "And you are?"

 

"Pete Wentz, nice to meet you!"Patrick kind of wants to die.Like right now.

 

The two shake hands, both of their fingers white in the grip.Frank lifts an eyebrow. " _The_ Pete?"

 

Mother of god, what in the ever loving fuck.

 

Pete laughs obnoxiously. "I guess.Are you _the_ Frank?"He grins at Frank's nod, wide and fake. "I was hoping I'd meet you.Patrick's been trying to hide you from me."

 

Frank's eyes snap over to Patrick at that.He sinks as low as he can in the seat, grabbing the cup of coffee.Red blooms out over his face, as it usually does when he's put into life-ruining situations.He takes a long, scalding sip, then mutters, "Cyanide and two sugars, I hope."

 

He and Pete are left alone, after that, ordering and eating their food in mostly silence.(Pete keeps laughing at the look on Patrick's face, but doesn't say anything otherwise.)

 

# # #

 

The door slams heavily behind them.Pete can sense Patrick's mood, scurrying around him as noiselessly as possible.But he's not getting away that easily.

 

"What the fuck, Pete!" he shouts, ready for a fight.Because seriously, _what the fuck._

 

Pete stares, deer-in-the-headlights clueless. "Uh, I don't know, what?"

 

"You _knew_ he worked there!You took me there on purpose!What the fuck!"

 

Pete scowls, suddenly. "Well, jesus, Patrick, maybe if you weren't trying to hide the guy from me, I wouldn't have to go looking for him."

 

"I'm not trying to hide him, you paranoid fuck, I just.I didn't _want_ you to meet him, okay?"

 

"Why not?"

 

"Because!"Patrick throws his arms up. "Because it's none of your business!"

 

Pete crosses his arms, petulant. "Come on, Trick, I let you meet Ashlee."

 

Patrick rolls his eyes. "I'm not fucking marrying Frank.It's different.He's just... he's not.I don't know what he _is_ , okay, so I didn't want you to meet him and fucking humiliate me!"

 

"Well, sorry if I'm such a huge embarrassment!For fuck's sake, dude, you're my best friend.I just wanted to meet your... whatever.I gotta make sure he's, like, I don't know." Pete scowls darkly. "Worthy."

 

The way Pete says the last word makes Patrick's shoulders drop, tension easing out of him quickly.Fuck.He's such an asshole. "Sorry, Pete.Maybe... maybe, um, I don't know.He could come over and we could do takeout.Or something."

 

There's a moment of stillness, and then Pete wraps his arms around Patrick's middle and squeezes, affectionate. "That'd be awesome, man!I want to know more about the guy who makes my little Tricky's heart all a-twitter."

 

Patrick swats at him, half-heartedly, grinning despite himself. "Asshole."

 

# # #

 

The fourth night, Pete cuts Frank off in the hallway as he's heading home from work.Patrick listens, kind of horrified, but Pete's as charming as always and manages to convince Frank to come in and hang out.He hopes and prays that Frank's forgotten about their previous encounter (there's no way he has, but hey, a guy can dream) and will be civil with them.Frank's an asshole, but not in the way Patrick is, so he sits on the futon and smiles when Pete makes stupid jokes and accepts a carton of lo mein from Patrick with warm eyes.

 

"So Frank, Patrick said you play guitar pretty good," Pete says as they eat.Frank kind of glances at him, then at Patrick, a little confused. 

 

He says slowly, "You're a lot more talkative than Patrick is."

 

Pete laughs. "Yeah, well, that's 'cause Trick keeps all his emotions in his head, and then explodes when you least expect it."

 

"You keep yours on your sleeve, then?" Frank asks.

 

"Yeah, or y'know, the tip of my tongue."Pete sticks it out at both of them, not even done chewing, and Patrick throws a pillow at him.

 

Frank laughs boisterously, letting it fade into a smile. "I like you, Pete."

 

Pete looks him up-and-down, frowning slightly. "I'm still deciding about you."

 

Frank smiles more.

 

When all the chinese is eaten and thrown away, or tucked safely into the fridge for late-night snacking, Patrick escapes to the bathroom.He's so on edge, it's making him have to piss, and he needs some relief from the sheer awkwardness of the living room.Not that Pete and Frank aren't getting along, they _are_ , and that's... kind of the problem.This can only end in tears.Patrick's tears.

 

He's washing his hands and staring at himself helplessly in the mirror when he realizes that his friends are talking.About _him_.Patrick opens the door just a touch and leans his ear against the opening.Guilt tries to stop him from eavesdropping, but he beats it down and tells it to shut the fuck up, he needs to hear this.

 

Pete's laughing for a few seconds, then saying, " -- totally right, man, he can be such a spaz sometimes.Especially about his work."

 

His ears burn.Like being motivated is such a bad fucking thing.

 

"He's devoted," Frank says. "It's a nice change from everyone else in this town." Patrick smiles. _Thank you._ "But, I don't know.It confuses me, I guess, that he'd move _here_ to write music.This isn't exactly the place to try to make it."

 

Pete hesitates. "Yeah."

 

"I mean, you do know why he moved away?" _Oh shit._

 

"He said he needed, like, a change of scenery.For inspiration.I'll be honest with you, it bummed me out that he wouldn't be around anymore.Or that he wouldn't even be playing _his_ music anymore, you know?Classical's alright, but that's not what he's best at.He's a genius, you know, the most talented guy out there and he won't even _apply_ himself, or whatever."Patrick can practically hear the forlorn look on Pete's face. _Fuck._ "I love the guy.He's my best friend."

 

The futon squeaks as one of them -- _Pete_ , _he was on the floor_ \-- sits down.Frank sighs. "You're his, too.He talks about you all the time.And, I mean, I can hear it in his voice.He loves you, too, Pete."

 

That wet, sickly sound is probably Patrick's stomach falling out of his ass and onto the floor.This was such a supremely horrible idea, leaving the two of them alone together.He's throwing open the door and rushing back into the living room at the same time that Frank says, "Pete, he _told_ me -- "

 

"Hey, guys!" Patrick says, too loud. "Let's watch a movie or something!"

 

They both look at him, stone-faced.Pete's eyes have something... unidentifiable in them, and Frank just looks terribly, terribly sad.Patrick stares at both of them like a frightened cat, trying not to move too much for fear that they'll know he was listening.A few moments pass, and then Pete's eyes clear and he smiles wide. "Yeah, yeah, man, movie sounds good to me.Frankie?"

 

Frank's eyes are on Patrick when he replies. "No, I think I better go home.Work in the morning."

 

"Oh," Pete's face drops. "Sure, man, no problem."He stands when Frank stands, pulling the shorter man into a hug. "I've made up my mind.You're pretty much my new favorite person."He grins at Patrick over his shoulder. "Besides Mr. Stump, of course."

 

Frank laughs, tightly. "Of course.Nice to actually meet you, Pete.Patrick, walk me out?"

 

"Uh.Yeah."

 

Frank turns to him seriously when they get out in the hall. "Talk to him."

 

Mutant, renegade butterflies explode in Patrick's gut. "Frank -- "

 

"Patrick.Talk.To him."

 

He lowers his voice to a hiss, glancing back at the door of his apartment. "I _can't_.He'll freak out.He'll leave and never talk to me again."

 

Frank looks unimpressed. "If you honestly think that's true, then you're beyond help."

 

"Fuck you, man, you don't even _get_ it.He's married, he's _straight_ , and the last time I tried to talk to him about... about that, he called me a faggot and fucking forgot I existed for a month.I'm not putting myself through that again, okay?"He's furious, now, probably more so than he should be; Frank's just trying to help, he knows that.But, jesus, it's Pete.

 

"Whatever," Frank sighs. "I'll see you."He shuts the door to his apartment with an irritated swing of the arm.Patrick stares after him, calming himself.He must take too long, because a second later, Pete appears in the doorway, looking confused.

 

"Trick?You okay, man?"

 

Patrick rolls his eyes. "Yeah.Yeah, let's go to bed."

 

He pushes past Pete, moving toward the futon.Pete shuts the door, whining, "But I thought we were gonna watch a movie."

 

"Jesus, Pete, you're the reason I'm never having kids."

 

Pete gives him the finger, laughing.It only sounds slightly off.

 

# # #

 

On the fifth night, Frank clambers down the fire escape as loudly as possible.Pete jerks awake from his place on the floor (not that he hadn't already been tossing and turning, not that Patrick noticed or was even awake himself, right), wide eyes on the window.After Frank's footsteps fade out into the night air, he crawls across the floor and kneels at the edge of the futon.Patrick would open his eyes, but he's sleeping, so he obviously doesn't know Pete's right there.

 

"Trick."

 

He keeps his eyes firmly shut.If he ignores him long enough, he'll probably just go back to sleep.Or at least, back to his makeshift floor bed.Pete, however, persists.

 

" _Patrick._ "

 

He hums, short, hoping Pete gets the message to go the fuck back to bed.

 

"Fine, asshole," Pete mutters. "Move over, buttmunch."

 

This startles a laugh out of Patrick, his eyes opening instantly.Pete grins triumphantly, still pushing at Patrick's side to get him to move. "You dick, I was sleeping!"

 

"There's a fucking burglar outside!"

 

Patrick groans. "That's Frank, man, chill out.Go to bed."

 

"Frank?"Pete successfully pushes Patrick closer to the wall, grabbing a blanket from his floor space and climbing onto the futon.He settles down, right arm under his head, left arm dangerously close to being pressed against Patrick's chest.

 

"Yeah, Frank.Small guy.Lives next door.Ate dinner here the other night."

 

"I know who he _is_ , jerkface, I just don't get why he's outside."

 

Patrick closes his eyes, tries to ignore that Pete's _rightthefuckthere_. "He's weird, I don't know.He does that every so often.Wanders around at night."He huffs, realizing that he's still awake. "Now shut up and sleep."

 

He rolls over to face the wall, forget that he's suddenly sharing his bed.Pete, however, presses up against him, throwing an arm over his waist and pulling him closer.

 

Patrick stops breathing.

 

"Um.What are you -- ?"

 

"You're comfy.And I always cuddle with Ash when we sleep.It helps."Pete sounds kind of embarrassed.Patrick, who's all-too-familiar with Pete's chronic insomnia, relaxes and sighs.He's not about to shove him away, not when he actually _needs_ this.As awkward as it is.

 

"Okay.Just, um.No, okay."

 

He puts his hand on Pete's wrist, the one currently around his waist, and gives it a light squeeze.Pete smiles against the back of his neck. "Thanks, Patrick.I love you."

 

Patrick manages a squeak in response that he suspects kind of sounds like, "I love you, too."

 

# # #

 

The sixth night, Pete's on the futon when Patrick comes out of the bathroom, ready for bed.He kind of thought that it was a one night thing, that Pete was just spooked from Frank's unusual habits.But there he is, same spot as before, with his eyes already closed.

 

Not wanting to disturb him, Patrick neatly climbs over him and sinks down against the wall.Pete flicks an eye open, rolling to grab at him.For a moment, Patrick panics, but then he calms himself down and soon enough, falls asleep.

 

This happens again on the seventh night.And the eighth, and the ninth, and the tenth.The eleventh, he starts to wonder what the fuck is going on.Pete's handsy, sure, but he hasn't been _this_ comfortable since before the whole... gay kitchen encounter thing.Back when Patrick kind of, sort of thought maybe Pete loved him the way he loved Pete.He's not making that mistake this time, obviously, he's not fucking _deluded_ , but it's still curious.And pretty terrifying.

 

One of these days, Patrick's going to wake up with a hard-on, and Pete's going to run out of the apartment and never speak to him again.Because of morning wood.And what the fuck, that's not going to be fair at _all_.It's a wonder it hasn't already happened.  

 

Hasn't Happened (-- _Yet_.)

 

Fuck.Holy fuck.He needs to put an end to this, right now.

 

On the twelfth night, Patrick gets to the futon before Pete, and when he tries to push him over to climb in, Patrick stops him.He lifts an eyebrow, confused. "Come on, Trick, move over."

 

"Look, Pete, I don't think..."He sighs, rubbing a hand over his forehead. "This is a bad idea."

 

Pete looks bewildered. "Why?"

 

"Because.It just... it is."

 

"But Trick, come on, it helps me sleep.I told you."

 

Patrick shakes his head, feeling terrible. "I-I know.It's just... a bad situation.For me.It makes me uncomfortable."

 

Pete rolls his eyes. "Dude, you _like_ to sleep with dudes, remember?"

 

"Yeah.That's part of the problem."

 

"Oh."A realization seems to come over Pete, and his eyes go wide. " _Oh._ Oh, dude, is this about Frank?Are you worried he's gonna, like, find out?Because I can talk to him, I can explain, like, why we do it.If you want me to."

 

 _For fuck's sake._ "No, Pete, it's not about Frank."

 

"Then what?Like, I really don't get it.You've been fine with it for the past _week_ , man.I'm only here two more days.You'll survive."

 

Patrick shakes his head fervently. " _No_ , Pete.I haven't been fine with it.It's been fucking messing with my head, okay, and I can't handle it anymore.You've gotta sleep on the floor, or fuck, _I'll_ sleep on the floor, I don't care!I just, I can't sleep with you anymore."He puts his head in his hands, feeling a headache coming on fast.Pete's quiet a second, then sits down beside him.He puts a hand on Patrick's back, soothing.

 

"Hey.Okay, um, if it really bothers you that much, I'll just.Sleep on the floor again.No big deal."He bites his lip, watching the top of Patrick's head carefully. "Sorry, I guess I thought, since it was me, it wouldn't be a problem."

 

"It's a problem _because_ it's you," Patrick mutters, without thinking.He stills then, sudden, praying to God that his hands muffled it enough.But Pete's fingers aren't moving anymore, and fuck fuck fuck motherfucking cocksucking _fuck_.

 

"What?"

 

Patrick shakes his head again, screwing his eyes shut so hard he sees spots.His nose tingles, followed by a prick behind his eyes, and oh _god_ , he's not going to cry, not going to cry, not going to cry. "Fuck."

 

Pete's fingers curl against his t-shirt, scrunching it. "Dude, are you crying?"

 

"No."

 

"Yes, you are!Fuck, man, what's going on?What's wrong?"

 

"Pete, you piece of shit, you _know_."Patrick's fed up, and he doesn't care how much he cries anymore, he's just so fucking sick of this, of feeling this way with no one to turn to, no one who will take him seriously or believe him.He turns to face Pete, bold, letting the tears fall out of his eyes.Before him, Pete's just a big giant blur, but he's not backing down this time, their friendship be damned.

 

"Patrick..."

 

"No, fuck you!"And Patrick's on his feet, wiping his face furiously. "Fuck _you_ , Pete, because you're a stupid asshole and I fucking hate you!"

 

Pete's at his side in an instant, grabbing his arm and trying to get him to look at him again. "Patrick, please."

 

"Unless you're going to tell me that you're in love with me, too, and you're going to leave Ashlee or, or you're not going to pretend nothing happened anymore and you're still going to talk to me and be my fucking friend, you can go to hell."

 

Pete freezes again, backing away. "What -- ?"

 

Patrick shoves him, hard, so angry he can't even breathe.Pete hits the counter of the kitchenette with a heavy thud, eyes watching Patrick warily. "You stupid shiteating motherfucker."

 

"Trick -- "

 

"Shut the fuck up!" Patrick shouts, in Pete's face. "Don't talk to me like I'm your best fucking friend!"

 

A crease forms between Pete's eyebrows. "But... but you _are_..."

 

"Don't fucking lie to me!" Patrick shoves him again, and he winces as his back digs into the countertop. "If I were your best friend, you wouldn't have done that!You wouldn't have ignored me like I was nothing to you!You wouldn't have -- " He chokes back a sob, sudden, shaking his head to fight off the sadness and let the anger take over.When he speaks again, his voice has lowered to a deep, dangerous level. "You wouldn't have called me a fucking faggot."

 

Pete's eyes are wider than Patrick's ever seen them. "Patrick.Don't."

 

"Don't what?Don't do what you did?Now that the tables are turned, huh." Patrick presses in closer, one arm on either side of Pete's arms, fingers gripping the edge of the counter. "What, it was okay for _you_ to push _me_ up against the counter?To do _this?"_ He pushes his hips into Pete's, the other man jerking backward but not finding any escape.Patrick shoves him, roughly, grinding into him over and over until Pete grabs onto his biceps and digs in his fingers.

 

"You don't want this?" Patrick demands, voice still low, right in Pete's ear. "You don't want me to touch you like this?Because I'm a fucking faggot, and you're not?You don't want to see how much I fucking want you?"

 

Pete chokes, hips pitching forward. " _Patrick._ "

 

It's such a different tone of voice than he's been using -- not fearful, but, but _wanting_ \-- that Patrick stills instantly.He gapes as he stares at Pete, whose eyes have turned dark and fierce. "Pete?"

 

"Oh _god_ , Patrick," Pete murmurs, sliding his hands up Patrick's arms and grabbing the hair at the nape of his neck.He pulls Patrick in, sealing their mouths together and pushing his tongue in instantly.Patrick doesn't respond at first, hardly able to believe that this is happening, but then his mind stops working and his body takes over.

 

He kisses back, a force fighting against the push of Pete's lips and tongue and hips with his own.Pete's fingers flex tightly in his hair, pulling, making him moan deep in his throat.His cock pushes against the fly of his jeans, and Patrick, he can feel how hard Pete is, too, when he moves his thigh between Pete's and presses forward.Pete shudders beneath him, pulling him closer.

 

This feels so different from the first time, like Patrick's whole body is on fire and Pete's hands are putting him out.He licks his way into Pete's mouth, drawing gasps and moans out of him that just make Patrick's desire grow even more.His brain clouds with it, with this _need_ to keep going, to keep kissing Pete, to not think about consequence or reason or anything else.Just Pete's skin beneath his fingers, Pete's hips against his, Pete's hands curled in his hair.They stumble back from the kitchen counter, shedding clothes as they go.When they collapse, finally, on the futon, both are down to their boxers, and nothing else.

 

Patrick sits up on his knees, sitting between Pete's legs and leaning forward to kiss wetly along his chest and stomach.His hand slides down to palm Pete's erection through his shorts, and Pete arches his back, fucking keens with it.A hot shiver travels through them at the sound, sweat breaking out over Patrick's forehead.He stares down at Pete with blazing eyes, looking straight into Pete's as he starts to move his hand, slowly, deliberately.

 

"God, Patrick, your fucking _hands_ ," Pete groans, pushing up into him even more.

 

Patrick grins, biting down on Pete's collarbone as he eases off his boxers.He leans back to look at him, exposed beneath him, heat washing over him.Pete just stares as Patrick slides down the bed, pressing open-mouthed kisses and sharp bites along his chest and stomach and the inside of his thighs.His eyes meet Pete's for a quick, burning second before he slides his mouth over the head of Pete's dick, fighting his gag reflex to take Pete into his throat.

 

"Oh, oh fuck, oh Trick," Pete grunts, rambling a little with the sensation.Patrick hums, a long and low note, making Pete's body pitch forward under his hands. " _Ugh_ , oh my _god_ \-- "

 

The chorus of noise doesn't stop as Patrick continues moving his mouth over Pete.He's not very experienced with this, but he does what he thinks he would like, things Frank had done that'd made _him_ crazy.Pete's knuckles are buried deep in Patrick's hair now, tensing and releasing along to the thick strokes of Patrick's tongue.In the very back of his mind, Patrick thinks how insane it is that he's in this situation, right now.He'd really only meant to get Pete to sleep on the floor again, and now he's got his fucking dick in his mouth.  

 

Not that he's complaining.It's just unexpected.

 

A few things happen at once, then: Patrick shucks off his own boxers, Pete pulls him upwards, Pete wraps his legs around Patrick's waist, and then, all of a sudden, there are fingers pressing into him and Patrick's jaw is going slack and he's leaning into the bite Pete's inflicting on his throat.Ten minutes ago, Pete was just about the last person Patrick ever expected to do this with him ( _to_ him, fuck) and now he's rubbing his fingers mercilessly, at just the right angle, and Patrick's letting out noises he didn't even know he could make.Deep, guttural, rasping rolls of sound, washing over both of them, until finally Pete flips them over and is pushing in.

 

"Wait-- _fuck_ , uhh, Pete," Patrick gasps, head spinning.

 

Pete shakes his head, shoving quickly to completely bury himself. "Don't, _don't._ " 

 

He sets a grueling pace, rapid thrusts that leave both of them breathless, moving frantically.Pete's chest is heaving in a strange way, something that Patrick knows isn't from the pleasure.He catches a sheen in his eyes when Pete blinks them open for a brief second.A beat, a feeling of supreme guilt, and Patrick pulls Pete down by the neck, kissing him sweetly.Mouths closed, just a press of lips to show that this is okay, this is good, god, this is absolutely perfect.

 

Pete doesn't pull back, but he curls his mouth back, barring his teeth and hissing. "Is this what you want, Patrick?"It comes out in a fierce growl.Pete's eyes flick open, staring into Patrick's, smoldering.His cheeks are wet, eyes shining with the culprit.

 

"Pete -- "

 

Patrick cries out, long and _loud_ , when Pete abruptly switches angles, focusing his thrusts at just the right spot.His name is coming off of Patrick's tongue in waves, filling the silence of the room.Pete lets out a telltale grunt, and then both men are coming, pressing close to one another and shuddering with it.Sweet release, more intense and spine-tingling than anything Patrick's ever felt, _ever_.The most satisfying rush of his life.

 

The quiet of the aftermath closes in around them.There's a rush of cool air across his stomach as Pete rolls off and away.It occurs to Patrick, suddenly, that they didn't use a condom at all, and oh shit, the last thing he needs is to get some kind of fucking STD.It's _Pete_.

 

But then, he considers, it's Pete.He wouldn't do something like that if he wasn't sure he was safe.And either way, that's not the important thing now.

 

He rolls onto his side, facing Pete, who looks, honestly, kind of freaked.Patrick moves closer, wrapping a hand over the other man's stomach and pressing his face into his soft, dark hair.

 

"Look at what we have, Pete," he murmurs, voice soft and soothing. "Look what I can give you."

 

"So far all you've given me is an existential meltdown, Trick."

 

Patrick grins, kissing behind Pete's ear and making him shiver.His eyes slip closed, post-orgasm fatigue coming over him quickly. "And a mind-blowing orgasm."

 

Pete huffs a laugh, and Patrick takes it as a good sign.He passes out a few moments later, the smell of Pete's shampoo in his nose.

 

# # #

 

When he wakes up the next morning, Pete's gone.

 

# # #

 

The super gives him a warning for excessive noise levels.It's probably the most embarrassed Patrick's felt in his entire life, sure his face turns a shade of maroon that won't fade until at least sundown.He takes the notice and mutters an apology, heading out into the hall to gather his mail and go back upstairs.The sticking of his shoes on the ground barely fazes him anymore.

 

On the fourth floor landing, Frank's standing in his open doorway.He looks like he's been waiting for Patrick here, has this look of intent on his face.Patrick's having a hard time figuring out if it's good or bad, but his head's a little foggy at the moment.He pauses in front of the other man, staring at the floor and opening his mouth like he should say something.Anything.But nothing comes out, and the absence of words kind of stales the air.Finally, Frank lets out a sigh.

 

"Patrick."

 

His already fucking irritated eyes start pricking again, and he shakes his head quickly, turning away from Frank.The key to his own door is out and ready, halfway in the lock.Frank's fingers curl over the inside of his wrist, tugging.Patrick stops, hunching his shoulders.There's another tug on his hand, and he finds himself drifting into Frank's hold.He presses his eyes into the collar of Frank's sweatshirt, to absorb the tears already there.

 

They stand in the doorway for several long moments, Patrick clinging pathetically to Frank's middle, and Frank just holding him around the shoulders, rocking slightly and petting his hair.With a sniff, Patrick lifts his head and stares at Frank half a second before leaning in.Frank tenses, but after a moment, pulls him closer and shuts the door behind him.Like he knows, this is what Patrick thinks he needs.And fuck if Frank is going to argue with that.

 

# # #

 

"Can you get me a job at the diner?"

 

Frank shifts his head back on Patrick's chest, looking up at him. "Why?"

 

"I need to start saving up."

 

It takes a second, but Frank seems to understand.He turns back to the ceiling and doesn't say anything else.

 

# # #

 

A week later, Patrick has a part-time job bussing tables, the night shift when Frank's _not_ working.It doesn't pay a whole lot, but enough that Patrick can put away a couple hundred bucks in a few weeks.Then he starts scouring apartment ads in Chicago.

 

Pete doesn't call.Patrick pretends not to notice.

 

# # #

 

Three months later, laying in bed with Frank, Patrick tells him about the awesome place he found in Chicago.The place he's moving into next weekend.Frank frowns at him, a dark look flashing through his eyes.

 

"You're moving away?"

 

Patrick furrows his eyebrows. "Uh, yeah.I thought you knew that."

 

Frank shrugs. "I guess I didn't think you were serious."

 

"I just.I need to get away from everything.And it'd be nice to see my family.I think it'll help."

 

Frank just shrugs again.Patrick frowns, curling around Frank's smaller frame.He presses his lips to the spot behind his ear, speaking low. "You've been so great to me, Frank.I'll never forget you, or your friendship.And.And you can come visit me in Chicago, any time."He rubs a hand soothingly down Frank's stomach, resting just below his belly button. "Let's make the most of the next week, okay?Appreciate the positives."

 

Frank's eyes flick over, guarded.But he smiles, and nods, and slides Patrick's hand down to his dick, already half-hard.They kiss, slick and dirty, fast.Patrick moves over Frank, replacing his hand with his own erection.Frank gasps and bucks, biting onto Patrick's lip with a small whine.And Patrick's only human, can only react to what's right in front of him, telling himself that this is okay and totally healthy behavior, as he wets two fingers and reaches down to press them into Frank.

 

"Ugh, just go, just fuckin' fuck me," Frank rasps.Patrick growls, predatory, and does just that.

 

When Frank's coming down, shuddering and clinging to Patrick, he presses his lips to his neck andmouths something.The words sink underneath his skin, and he tenses between one breath and the next.Patrick pulls back, stilling, staring down at Frank.The smaller man stares back, curiously, and tightens a leg around his waist briefly, urging him to keep going, get himself off.But Patrick, he's distracted, he has to know --

 

"What?What did you say?"

 

Frank looks confused a moment, then for an even shorter moment, completely terrified.He finally breaks into a grin that's barely even a smile and says, "I just said you're fucking amazing.Now keep going."

 

Unconvinced, Patrick does just that.

 

# # #

 

The key is shiny and brand new when the landlord presses it into Patrick's palm.His friend, Joe, hitches a box up higher on his hip and rolls his eyes. "What floor, dude?Your shit is heavy."Patrick doesn't answer for a moment, lost in the golden gleam of the trinket in his hand, but then registers Joe's words and mutters, "Fourth floor.4D."

 

His neighbors don't introduce themselves, and honestly, Patrick's grateful.The only people who ever call are Joe, his mother, and occasionally this vegan guy Andy that he used to drum with, sometimes.He doesn't think he even remembers where he put that slip of paper with Frank's address.Maybe he should feel guilty about that, but then one of the local private schools offers him a teaching position and he kind of forgets.

 

Patrick forgets a lot, these days.

 

# # #

 

Across the street from his new building, there's a place that sells deep dish pizza at all hours of the day or night.It's so obviously targeting tourists who want a Real Chicago Experience, but Patrick eats there most days anyway.Part of him feels like he's less likely to be found in those kind of places.Staying lost is pretty much top priority.

 

At night, Patrick writes music.But, like, _real_ music.With riffs and progressions and steady bass beats.He'll half-heartedly throw together lesson plans before he passes out on his actual bed, in his actual bedroom.

 

(He threw out the futon two days after Pete left.At that point, he was sleeping in Frank's bed every night, so it didn't seem like a huge loss.The mattress smelled vaguely of sweat when it got thrown into the dumpster.Sometimes, late at night, Patrick can still smell it.)

 

It's a Saturday afternoon, and Patrick's lost in a world of GarageBand, when the doorbell rings.He doesn't hear it through his headphones the first or second time, but on the third, he gets up and goes over to his intercom. "Hey, Joe?"

 

The other end is silent for a long, confusing moment. "No."

 

Patrick's breath catches in his chest, but he finds himself saying, "I'll buzz you in," and hitting the appropriate button with a sweaty finger.He stands in the same spot, staring at his door, waiting.Even so, he nearly jumps out of his skin when a fist pounds on it, reverberating through his skull and down to his toes.

 

The door opens with a sturdy swing.The man in front of him shakes his thick black hair out of his eyes, grimacing. "Hey Patrick."

 

Patrick swallows his nerves down. "Hey... uh, hey, Frank."

 

Frank's grimace turns to a smile, small and unsure. "Can I come in?"

 

"Yeah."

 

Neither of them mention the overstuffed duffel bag or the guitar slung over Frank's shoulder.

 

# # #

 

Pete leaves Patrick a message in the middle of the night three weeks later.He's crying and apologizing and promising that things will be different, this time.

 

Patrick erases it and curls his arms around Frank, drifting back to sleep in record time.

 

 

 

 

[fin.]

 


End file.
